


Our Neighborhood

by mmouse15



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-09
Updated: 2018-01-09
Packaged: 2019-03-02 21:29:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13326729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mmouse15/pseuds/mmouse15
Summary: Steve Rogers takes a walk around his neighborhood, pre-war.





	Our Neighborhood

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DragonofMordor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonofMordor/gifts).



Bucky was already gone to his job at the docks, loading crates on merchant ships. The work was hard, but it paid well and Bucky could do it, making enough to cover the rent on their place. Steve stretched, his back popping as his muscles pulled on his crooked spine. He coughed, and was grateful to feel that it was his normal cough, not the phlegmy, hacking cough he'd had the week before. No, it seemed he was recovering, finally, from whatever illness he'd had.

Of course, he'd lost his job. Bucky had tried to plead for him, but Mr. O'Donnell had regretfully turned him down. Steve had been sick too often, and O'Donnell needed someone there to sweep the floors and carry supplies out to restock the shelves.

Steve got up, pulled on his trousers, and went down the hall to the shared bathroom. He used the toilet and then the sink, giving himself a quick sponge bath with the tepid water from the tap. He couldn't afford the time to take a bath, he needed to find another job.

Back at their apartment, Steve shrugged on his best shirt over his singlet and pulled his suspenders over his shoulders, then slipped on his shoes and jacket. He grabbed a slice of the bread Bucky had baked on Sunday, slathering honey on it and heading out with the bread in one hand and his portfolio tucked under the other.

He headed toward the dock yards, intending to stop by some of the tattoo parlors on Sands Street. Most sailors wanted the normal tattoos — anchors, stars, swallows, and ropes — but some wanted special tattoos and Steve had used his time in bed to do lines for mermaids and sailing ships. He knew he could always sell these, as his lines were clear, well spaced, and his perspective was excellent.

Two of the parlors happily bought his sketches to add to their portfolios and paid him cash. Steve tucked the money in a pocket he'd sewn on the inside of his waistband and continued on his way. He walked to Bridge Park, where artists would paint or sketch the bridge and could sell their work to the tourists. He set himself up and did a couple of sketches. A well-dressed woman bought one of them, paying him a quarter.

"Ma'am, this is too much," Steve protested.

She stopped him in his tracks with a look that was so like his ma's he could feel his heart in his throat. "Young man, good art is worth more than money, and you do a very good job. Do not tell me how much I am to value your art. Take the money and spend it on yourself."

Steve nodded and tugged his forelock, answering, "Yes, ma'am, I'll do that."

She nodded briskly and went on her way. Steve tucked the quarter into his inner pocket and finished his second sketch before the sun got low and the air cooled considerably. He gathered his materials and headed to home.

Bucky was already there, frying potatoes in a pan, the end of a ham cut up among it. Steve sniffed the air and commented, "We actually get meat?" He hung his jacket up and put his portfolio on their sagging couch.

Bucky laughed, "Yeah, Mr. McTavish was closing up shop as I went by and said he couldn't sell it, too fatty, so did I want it? He'd heard you were sick. He even gave me a couple of eggs, they're in the icebox, for tomorrow."

"That was nice of him," Steve said.

"Where were you?" Bucky asked, returning his attention to the skillet.

"I went to Sands, to the parlors, and then to the park," Steve told him, "and I sold a couple of tattoos and a sketch."

"Wow," Bucky commented, "good day."

"Yeah," Steve agreed, pulling out his cash to put in the jar. "I made...let's see, 95 cents today."

Bucky whistled, "A really good day, then."

Steve washed his hands and pulled out their plates, setting them on the table before getting their forks and tin mugs, which he filled with water from the tap.

"It was," Steve agreed as Bucky carried over the skillet and split the food between them. Steve, meanwhile, sliced two pieces off the loaf and put one on each plate. They sat down, and Bucky grinned.

"Here's to things getting better, Steve," he said, as he toasted him with his mug.

"To good times, Bucky," Steve replied.

~fin


End file.
